Feast!
by Incitata
Summary: At the break of the first wizard war Voldemort was strong. So was desire, hate and hunger ... join the feast. DISCONTINUED 29805
1. Baffling Buns

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Feast! 

Chapter 1: Baffling Buns 

~o~ 

Far along Diagon Alley, pressed between the white walls of Gringotts and the red bricks of a second hand bookshop, stood a baker's shop. The narrow front was dark and the sign above the doorway that had once proudly announced _"Bradley's Bakes ~ the magic's in the mixing"_ now peeled. But the small square window panes sparkled and the door was painted a fresh and welcoming green. More often than not it stood open an inch or two, allowing the aroma of fresh baked bread to reach the noses of the wizard folk 

Edna Bradley didn't count herself as one of the wizard folk; she was over eighty-five years old and born a squib. This had never bothered her. Seeing her four brothers grow into skilled wizards made her happy, and when she was twelve she found that she too had a talent – one that her family encouraged. Edna Bradley had become apprenticed to a baker on the Muggleside, and when she had learned enough she came back and slipped, like many others in her situation, into the magical community. Edna was happy here, up to her elbows in flour, breathing in the yeasty air and nibbling on the raisins and candied orange peel that filled the jars on her laden shelves. 

Never married herself, Edna had a busy life. Her brothers had been most productive, and so she was often surrounded by grandnieces and grandnephews – witches and wizards all. Perhaps there was a reason that even when a very nice wizard asked for her hand back in the 1930's, she had refused. Though her family never believed in it, there was still a stigma about her kind, one that she felt uncomfortable about spreading. Yet those who knew her wares couldn't help wondering if there was a trace of magic about Aunty Edna – how else could a crust be so light, a fruitcake so moist? 

Rising before dawn, Edna had set to work. Halloween was one of the busiest days of the year, and even as the first rays of sunlight chased the Nargles to their dens, the brass bell on the front door rang, calling her out of the kitchen. She reached for a tea-towel, wiping mix from her gnarled hands as she went, slowly, but not yet needing a cane. 

"I might've known it'd be you, Tom," she beamed as her customer laid a soft brown hat on the counter. "Who else is up afore eight round 'ere?" She placed her tea-towel on the counter beside an empty cake stand. "What can I do for you?" 

"Cauldron cakes, Edna. I've a young crowd in tonight. They're coming through Muggle London, one of them has Muggle parents, and then they're coming to the _Cauldron_. Can you believe it?" 

"Anyone'd think they'd never left school the way they carry on today." Edna shook her head as she sucked air in through her yellowed teeth. "How many, Tom?" 

"Thirty should do, along with everything else I ordered." 

Edna smiled, "Send someone over through the day. I'll make sure the cakes are my last batch. They'll be done about seven. I'll throw in some Baffling Buns too." 

"You're a blessing." He picked up his hat. "Will you be in for a snifter later?" 

"I don't think so. Halloween's not really my time. The _Cauldron_ won't miss me tonight, Tom." 

The rush continued through the day - 

- "That pink and yellow cake with the marzipan? Of course, Minister – it's a Muggle favourite too – Battenburg they call it!" 

- "Yes, Mrs Figg, I'm telling you it was the 'eadmaster hisself – bright as rain first thing this morning to pick up 'is order for 'ogwarts – cares about those students he does. My nephew, well, great-grandnephew actually. Well, he's …" 

- And now Edna looked forward to settling down for the evening with a nice cup of tea. There was plenty of time while the Baffling Buns finished baking in the huge, clay, onion-shaped oven that stood in the centre of the kitchen, a narrow flue rising up through the floors above. Edna shuffled from the stove with the kettle, her slippers making little sound on the tiled floor. With a heave she poured water over dried dry leaves before setting down the kettle and popping the lid on the pot. Edna smiled to herself and eased into her rocking chair to sit amongst the cushions. She relished the silence. She drew a checked blanket across her knees and tucked it in at the edges, covering all trace of the flowered skirt below.

"Ahhhhhhh," she sighed. 

Just as her eyelids began to droop, the shop bell rang. 

"Oh, fiddlesticks," she muttered, dragging herself to her feet. "Perhaps I'm getting too old for this." She patted her grey bun back into shape. "I'm coming," she called as she emerged into her shop, "I'm coming!" The room was illuminated only by the lamplight that spilled through the windows, making orange squares on the floorboards. Edna blinked. She peered at the cloaked man standing near the door. He wasn't a regular and he hadn't bothered to lower his hood, but one got allsorts round here. 

"Can I 'elp you?" she asked sleepily. "I dozed off for a while, should've been closed by now." 

"Just … browsing," replied the man, peering at the display of decorated dragon cakes that stood in the window. 

"Well, if you've five minutes there's a batch of Baffling Buns almost done. They're all I've left and they're meant for the Leaky Cauldron but if you'd like a few, Tom can spare them." Edna shook her head at the stranger, and turned back toward her kitchen muttering beneath her breath. "Browsing in a bakery indeed," she said. "Who ever heard of such a thing?" 

Just as she reached the door he asked, "Have you been here long?" in a smooth deep voice with an accent that Edna thought might be foreign -- eastern European by her guess. She turned to see that he had lowered his hood and was staring at her with small black eyes. His face was thin and he wore a small beard on the end of his chin – very exotic, thought Edna, convinced now that he must be a Russian. "Only I have not seen this shop before," he added. 

"Sixty years or thereabouts," she replied, smiling a smile that creased up her face, "It's well known hereabouts – being a unique establishment … would you excuse me, I'll get them buns." Edna moved off into the kitchen and busied herself with her task, but then she heard the man still talking. 

"A unique establishment, you say?" 

"Yes," she replied, her voice carrying easily through the open door. "In these parts, go Muggleside and we're ten a penny, but I've no magic you see. Most don't mind that though, there was a little trouble back in '39 when that young Grindelwald character was putting hisself about – but that's be afore your time." She laid a plate of cakes on the counter and smiled at the man, she couldn't help thinking he looked even paler than he had a few minutes ago. Quickly she placed four of the buns in a brown paper bag and thrust it into the man's hands. "No charge this time," she said, "but tell your friends about me and that will be payment enough – and mind you don't go asking me for the recipe for them buns, that secret'll die with me. 

"Th - Thank you," he stammered, as if she had just handed him the crown jewels. She watched him leave and was a little surprised that before he stepped outside his hood was back over his face. 

"Takes allsorts," Edna chuckled, locking the door behind him. No more disturbances; now it was time for tea. 

~o~

As he emerged from the little shop into a mix of lamp and twilight, the man breathed deeply as though he had been holding his breath. It was hot beneath his hood and he yearned to cast it off. He moved off quickly, not sure if anyone had seen him but quite certain that no one would be able to identify him. Turning the corner, he loosed the clasp at his throat and the hooded cloak slipped off his shoulders. 

The brown paper bag crackled as he arranged the cloak over his arm. 

It was too warm an evening to wear a cloak like this and too warm an evening for Halloween. He grimaced, feeling beads of sweat prickle on his forehead. Antonin wanted, -- no, Antonin _needed_ a drink. There was a small bar just off Knockturn Alley where his 'friends_'_ would be waiting his return, but he found that he wasn't quite ready to go back there. 

Dolohov realised that he was standing still, staring at the paper bag clutched in his hand, and he had been for some minutes. His throat was dry. 

A drink. 

Swiftly, he turned back the way he had come, unable to prevent himself from glancing at the baker's shop as he passed. Now the blinds were drawn behind the windows, giving the narrow building the appearance of a face asleep. 

~o~

The bar room of the Leaky Cauldron was crowded, but here Dolohov knew he could be anonymous – everyone passed through the Cauldron on their way to or from Diagon Alley. His breath came more easily as he picked his way across the room, and by the time he laid his cloak on a stool and his paper bag on the bar, he felt almost normal. 

"You look like you seen the Grim," said a friendly voice. Dolohov raised his gaze and found that he was staring into the face of Tom, the innkeeper. 

"Something like that," he muttered in reply. "Ogden's, a large one." 

Tom reached below the bar and produced a glass and a bottle; as he pulled out the stopper Dolohov said, "Leave it, I have a thirst." 

"As you wish, sir. I'll trouble you for a sickle then." 

Rolling his eyes, Dolohov reached into his robes and produced a single silver coin. It clicked down on the bar and with one finger he pushed it toward Tom. 

"Thank you, sir. We'll have quite a crowd tonight … always one of the busiest – some of them – the younger ones – they'll party all night." 

"I dare say," Dolohov said. Having swigged his first glass, he proceeded to pour another. "Good crowd for the show." 

"Show?" enquired Tom. "There's no show, sir." 

"Of course." He was pleased when the man departed and he could return to his own quagmire of thought. Feeling a pang of hunger, he reached into the bag and broke off a piece of bun. As he chewed, he mused on the situation, on the day, on the future. 

With a cough, crumbs spattered across the bartop. Good though the Baffling Bun might taste, it was choking him. Without thinking, Dolohov threw another glass of Ogden's down his throat and he began to splutter again. 

Cursing in a foreign tongue, he snatched up his things and stormed out of the _Cauldron_ bar. He'd have no peace until it was done. 

~o~

Head nodding gently, Edna dozed in her rocking chair. More often than not, these days she didn't reach her bed at night – hair in rollers and the rest of her comfortable in a heavy cotton night-dress, quilted dressing gown and pink slippers. Edna would settle down by the fire with a mug of hot chocolate, a single candle burning in the brass stand with the curved handle that stood on the worktop. 

__

She could feel the wind in her hair as the ground raced by a hundred feet below – up here, on the back of a broomstick, she closed her eyes and clutched the waist of the young man flying the broom – they flew laughing and talking and, and then a thunderstorm broke – but there was no rain… 

… and no broom, and no young man. Edna blinked as the rocking chair creaked and shifted beneath her. But the thunder was still there, a sound like many fists pounding on a sheet of metal. 

The door! 

Shaking her head, Edna pushed herself to her feet, pulling her dressing gown tight around her as she peered at the clock – almost midnight. She picked up the candlestick and moved through to the shop. 

"These days when people have anything stronger than pumpkin juice they can't control themselves," she muttered, snatching the keys from a hook as she went. "There'll be trouble when I get their names." 

She could see them through the panes of glass in the door -- they no doubt found it very amusing to wake an old woman -- but Edna had never been one to be cowed by bullying, so she marched determinedly toward the door. She was halfway there when the door began to glow. She stopped, staring in puzzlement. As it split into a hail of shards and splinters, she fell back with a thud on the floorboards. 

"Didn't you hear me knock?" The enquiry came from one of three cloaked men that squeezed through the doorway. Edna couldn't tell which, but it was a high pitched voice, empty of any feeling. She wiped her eyes, aware that there was blood mixed with her tears. 

"There's no money," she spluttered, fingernails against her will scratching at the floorboards, as if seeking a gap through which she might escape. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands against them repeating, "No money, no money," over and over again. 

"Oh, we're not here to rob you," said the voice that belonged to the tall one. The other two remained silent as he approached her. "We're here to… will you look at me when I'm talking to you!" he spat suddenly, and Edna found that she was staring at the tip of a wand. Without warning, she flipped into an awkward sitting position, back rigid and legs stretched out straight in front of her. She couldn't even blink. 

With a sweep of his arm, the man threw back his hood and looked once again at Edna, "Isn't that better, now that we can both see one another?" 

It was not better. Unable to gasp or cry out, Edna felt a burning panic flood her stomach – she lived in wizard London, she knew the rumours, she should have been more careful – careless talk, someone had once said but she could no longer remember why. She couldn't move; she was trapped and those eyes were fixed upon her and they were amused and cold, certainly untouched by the stream of tears that stained the old woman's cheeks. He twirled the wand between long, white fingers, and seemed to follow her gaze to it. 

"I was most impressed with your cooking," he said, like one passing the time of day, and in the air between them appeared a much-crumpled brown paper bag. A flick of the wand and it upturned, four Baffling Buns falling to the floor, bouncing over Edna's legs. "I thought it very kind of my friend over there to introduce us, don't you?" 

Behind and to her left, Edna heard a scrape, like someone had started in shock. She couldn't turn but she saw that she was relieved of that callous red gaze, and for a moment she could breath a little easier -- then the thing's lips twisted into a half smile and his gaze fell once again upon her. 

"Yes, most impressed. But I think the preparation lacks the magic touch. I would like to share a recipe of my own…" Again the wand began to twirl and he paced about the room, muttering to himself as he passed in and out of Edna's field of vision. "…sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye, four and twenty Mudbloods, baked in a pie. No, no. That will never do! Ah, patta cake, patta cake, baker's man, bake me a squib as fast as you can. Pat it and prick it and mark it with V…" 

"MAD!" The word burst suddenly from Edna's lips and the man stopped pacing. He looked at her with something resembling surprise before glancing at his companions. 

"Enough," he said. "Bring her along." Then he swept into the kitchen. 

Edna felt herself being levitated and as she twisted in the air she caught sight of the other two. One stared impassively, but the eyes of the other were damp and glittering in the candlelight. Then as they moved out of the range of her vision she could see them no more. 

He stood by the oven, contemplative, one hand swinging the rectangular metal door back and forth. He flicked it shut with a clang. 

"I don't suppose you've ever Apparated, have you?" he enquired. "Transloction is very similar; the difference being that when one Apparates the power and memory of shape must come from _within_." As he explained, he rested one hand flat on the cold wall of the oven. "It's all very simple really." Beneath the long white fingers, the rounded terracotta began to glow red, the line of heat spreading out until the whole oven shone orange. 

Seemingly bored, he flicked his wand at Edna and she vanished. In the same instant he nodded and the silent companions Disapparated. 

__

Sonorus, he whispered rapping the tip of his wand on the oven door. 

A scream that would shift the dust from the darkest corner of Knockturn Alley tore through the night air. 

Not a being in Wizard London could ignore that sound and in the seconds it took them to leave their cosy firesides to investigate, the bakers shop imploded. All they would find was a large onion shaped oven surrounded by blackened stumps where the walls had been, and the air shimmering with dust all lit by a glowing sigil – silver and green against the Halloween sky. 

The Dark Mark was seen for the first time that night. 

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Authors Note:

A bit of a change from my most recent writings …

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I've just cast an Unforgivable and posted without acknowledgement to my Beta, **_Satella. _**I'm sorry. Without your help I would never have got this story working.

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Feast! Is not a long fic, it will last five chapters. It is 90% written, the later chapters being beta-ed as you read.


	2. Peel the Onion

**Feast!**

**Chapter 2: Peel the Onion**

In Knockturn Alley it was not unusual to see cloaked figures huddled in doorways, talking with low and swift voices. It was not a place to linger after midnight.

"What were you thinking of, Dolohov?" asked Rookwood. "What idiot notion made you follow _me_? Do you want to ruin everything?"

"What happens now?" he asked flatly, twisting a soft black cloth between his hands.

"You wait," Rookwood replied, drawing further into the doorway, as if afraid of being seen. "And you sort out your alibi should you find that you require one."

"But you said there'd be no investigation."

Rookwood smiled nastily. "There's always an investigation – _I_ happen to be in charge of it. If I need a culprit I'll find one. You told me you liked to gamble -- what's life without a little risk?"

"What is the point of murdering squibs, anyway?" Dolohov spat.

He appeared angry, or perhaps upset. _Had he lost his nerve?_

"Fun," replied Rookwood, the word spoken with matter-of-fact callousness. "The prospect of power seemed interesting until you had to find a way to prove you deserve it, did it? If you do want to back out, go ahead, but don't be surprised if you find your entrails strung over a tree in Lincolnshire when you wake up one morning. Not that the thought gives me any comfort, because I'd already be dead. Go away to wherever it is you live, and wait. You'll know when you're needed – and whatever you do, do not try to have any further contact with _me_."

He tugged a mask from his robes and touched it lightly with the tip of his wand.

"Are you still here?" he asked, glaring at Dolohov over the blue flame that quickly consumed the cloth.

"Why did I ever listen to you?" Dolohov muttered.

"You can mull on that question while you walk home. Maybe you'll find the answer."

Rookwood turned his back, listening to Dolohov's footsteps get fainter and fainter. He looked at the sky, bright over Diagon Alley, and slipped an hourglass from his robes, barely twisting the top bulb as he walked a little way down the street.

Five stolen minutes.

Rookwood glanced at the doorway and saw himself and Dolohov deep in conversation, his own face pale against the shadows. No time to waste, he thought, and Disapparated.

He entered the Leaky Cauldron from the Muggleside, greeted by a draught of warm air, thick with the smell of smoke and Butterbeer.

"Over here, Augustus!" A wizard seated at a table near the back door was waving. Rookwood returned the greeting and with difficulty pushed through the crowd, stopping at the bar to order a firewhiskey. ****

"What a night, Croaker," he complained, placing the glass down and dragging a stool from beneath the table with his foot. "I thought I'd never make it. It seems that the…"

An anguished scream silenced the crowd and drowned the chime of midnight. Glasses frozen in mid sip, laughter turned to confusion as the revellers looked at one another uneasily.

Rookwood and Croaker were already on their feet and pushing toward the alleyway when a bright flash lit the sky. It roused the crowd from their shock and immediately a babble rose.

The wall to Diagon Alley was already open, and cloaked figures bathed in sickly light moved swiftly towards Gringotts. They walked quickly, not speaking. Rookwood's hand curled around his wand. His gaze darted back and forth, trying to identify the people he passed. The crowd thickened.

"Department of Mysteries," he said, seeing for the first time the blackened walls of the bank. "Let us through."

"What is it?" said Croaker, pointing at the skull.

"I don't know." Rookwood replied eyes narrowed as his gaze fell upon a figure huddled in the narrow alleyway that until recently the baker's shop had so effectively screened. "Lets get this place sealed. I'll be with you in a minute."

He had seen someone of great interest, she was young, maybe twenty and already her quill danced over the parchment held flat on her palm. He strode over and grasped her elbow, propelling her further into the shadows. Her quill falling on to the cobbles.

"You are?" he asked, not releasing her.

"Rita Skeeter, _Daily Prophet_," she said, her parchment held in her fist. "Any comment on what has happened?"

"An investigation is underway. All information is classified by the Department of Mysteries and top secret. Your notes, Miss…?" He held out his free hand. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers and he snatched away the sheaf of notes, head bent, skimming the top sheet.

"Skeeter. _Daily Prophet_," she repeated, as though confronted with an idiot. "Got to have something for the morning edition. There are what, a hundred people out there. What shall it be…? Midnight Mishap? Squib brings the house down in spontaneous supernatural surge? It's never too late to…"

"I don't want to see anything, Miss…"

"Skeeter!"

"May I quote you on that? Mr…?"

"Official source. If your article runs beyond the fact that an investigation is underway, you may consider your career over."

"Are you trying to gag the _Prophet_, Mr Official Source? My editor will want something more than…"

Releasing her arm, he slipped a quill from the sleeve of his robes, pressing it and a single scrap of parchment into her hands. "Write this down. 'An Official Source last night revealed that next year's Quidditch World Cup may be suspended for 'security reasons.' He declined to comment further. When asked for confirmation of this, a Ministry spokeswitch replied, ´Such rumours are preposterous -- why don't you stop wasting our time and go and enjoy Halloween like everybody else!'"

It took her a moment to write it down, and he used the time to flick through her other notes. "Dress it up however you like," he added as she waited, quill poised, for more.

"I'll keep these," he said, stuffing the pages into his robes and turning away. He glanced back, and the expression of loathing on her face assured him that the morning edition would be bursting with speculation and scant on facts. The public would be in such a panic that they'd be peering round every corner in case a dark wizard was waiting to pounce.

Rookwood hurried back to Croaker, who was tying a length of shining blue ribbon around the site, looking perplexed at the crowd gathering behind. The sea of faces looked sinister in the green light.

"Press?" Croaker asked.

Rookwood nodded. "Did anyone see anything?"

"Nothing. The place was deserted – can we do something about that - thing? Gives me the creeps."

The pulsating mark hung above them emitting a disconcerting hum of power.

"It could be an important clue," he said shaking his head. "Besides, the light is useful." He turned to contemplate the oven standing alone in the rubble.

"Granny, Granneeeeee!" A girl, small enough to push through the legs of the crowd, ducked under the tape and burst through the line, pigtails flying behind her. Just as she reached the oven, a Ministry wizard grabbed her, swinging her off her feet and away from the heat. He carried her, sobbing, back to her mother.

It was then that it happened. The oven began to crumble, thin cracks splitting the glaze until it looked like black lace; then, unable to support its own weight, the oven sank in upon itself.

Dust billowed from the ruins, settling slowly. Through the thinning cloud something near the ground was moving

First a hand appeared a blackened claw that scrabbled with surprising ease through the broken stone. A withered arm was attached and in minutes a whole body was visible, recognisably human but only barely so. Skin clung to a small and shrivelled frame and where it was not cracked and black, it was raw and oozing.The most startling thing was its eyes. Though the lids were burned away they were bright and aware and full of terror.  
"Evil…" the figure rasped, though how it managed to make the sound without vocal chords was unclear, "... burning ... let me die." It clawed at the air, lunging toward the gawping, horrified crowd who inched closer for a better look, breaking the cordon.

"Merlin…" Rookwood murmured. Not surprisingly, he saw that others too had drawn their wands. He snapped his mouth shut. "Get that cordon back up," he ordered a witch in Ministry robes.

"Who did this to you?" Croaker asked as it shambled forward.

It stopped, not sure where to look. _So many wands_. It remembered its last encounter with a wand only too well. A wand had brought it brought _her_ here. Itshead turned, slowly, with the sound of splitting skin.

"To me?" it queried in a voice, harsh, discordant. "Nobody did this to me. I did this to me. I was a Squib, something fouler than even a Mudblood. I deserve this, filth that I am."

But the part that was still human, still Edna, wept. She had no strength, no body left to speak of, but her mind was still there, held by the spell that had kept her aware in the furnace as he questioned and taunted her while her hair frazzled and her ears melted. He now forced her to speak with a voice that was not her own. She couldn't stop it; nothing could break that control or stop what it said with her dried lips. "Filth! I and all like I was. I deserve to die along with the Muggle-born scum that dares to give itself the name of wizard."

As she fell silent the hushed crowd watched as her legs buckled and she dropped to her knees.

_Surely she should have gone now that the Dark Lord had left her._ Rookwood was puzzled. With one eye on the squib and the other on the Dark Mark, he pondered what to do. _Was there more to come?_

With a crack like splitting bone, Edna's head snapped round to stare at Rookwood. Her head lolled oddly but he detected awareness in her eyes. Slowly, her arm began to rise.

_Merlin, had she recognised him? _

A finger pointed. Even a half dead one could ruin him.

In a swift arc, he raised his wand and roared, "Finite Incantatem!"

A jet of light shot out at the Mark, which flared brightly, then exploded in a blaze of green and silver stars. Rookwood's arm was numb to the shoulder, but he had no time to worry about that. Where the stars landed a rash of fires broke out, scattering the crowd, which rushed in all directions to help extinguish the flames or escape the burning.

He leapt to the assistance of a Ministrywitch whose cloak hadcaught fire, dousing her with a jet of water. She smiled gratefully then drew her own wand and dashed to stop a green blaze from spreading up the walls of Gringotts.

Chaos -- utter chaos -- spread as the light cast by the Dark Mark dissipated.

Augustus Rookwood, Department of Mysteries stumbled back with the crowd, cursing as his foot slipped in something that reeked like vomit. All around him people were running, screaming – all of them unaware of his own inaction. With a pang he knew that his own role had changed, no more would he feel this thrill – always from now to be a sleeper.

Somehow the little girl had broken loose. He concentrated upon her form, bright, dashing through the crowd with only one aim in her heart. He saw her fall, counted each sudder as she sobbed over the corpse.

Absorbing strength from the power that livened the air, Rookwood stepped forward. He was a family man himself, a caring member of the Ministry and his care of this victim of evil might help his own defence against any who might question that. Inside he chuckled as he laid his hand on the shoulder of the child, drawing her away and placing his own body between her and the Squib.

Distracted by the rain of fire no one really noticed when Edna's body crumpled silently to the ground as whatever force had held it onto life faded. It fell in a pile of dust and bones, the singed skull rolling to lie at Rookwoods feet. He looked at in disgust, and kicked it aside.


	3. Lily Liver

**Feast!**

**Chapter 3: Lily Liver**

o

When his anger waned, Dolohov trudged back his lodgings. The bare stairs, lit only by a single flickering lantern high above, creaked as he made his way up to the room above a second-hand robe shop in the less salubrious part of London. Without removing his cloak he slumped in a chair by the gaping hearth. The hours he marked by the level of the Ogden's bottle that stood on the table by his side, in easy reach of his hand. But despite the soporific effects of the liquid, sleep eluded him.

Becoming angry all over again he got up and left, slamming the door behind him.

What was the point? Rookwood with his broken promises and superior attitude. The one calling himself Lord Voldemort, he made promises beyond the imagination of most people but Dolohov was very imaginative. Left destitute in a dispute over land he wanted revenge. Slow revenge, the restoration of his fortune. The death of his enemies. Yet none of the promises had been fulfilled.

He walked and walked. Dawn broke as he stood on Westminster Bridge the band of grey light creeping up with the swirling tide. It began to rain.

He'd been misled. Why kill squibs when there was a real enemy out there? Attack that! He was angry. He was ready to abandon the whole idea, he'd slip away quietly, back to the east and they would not find him. He had friends.

Commuters passed around him. Shoes shining like wet cobbles, heavy overcoats, black umbrellas all too absorbed in their schedule to notice him, a shabby figure, unshaven and smelling of drink. He shambled off against the pedestrian flow, hating every one of them as they jostled, or sneered, or pushed by.

A woman, holding a damp newspaper over her head smiled and pressed a piece of paper into his hand. He stared after her then looked down at it. A one pound note. What use was that. I don't need your filthy muggle money - He almost yelled after her but already she was lost in the sweep of bodies. He let the note fall to the ground where it was trampled. Then he turned and went on his way.

_Why did they dominate the world when it was the wizards who had power? They should fear us_, he thought. _Forget the Statute of Secrecy. He wanted to use what he had learned. So why, like everyone else were these people wasting their time on soft targets?_

He felt the coins in his pocket, there was enough and so he made his way to the _Cauldron_. There was a crowd, not usual morning visitors but an oddly dishevelled mish-mash. Weariness was in the atmosphere as Tom handed out mulled mead, still in the same apron he had worn the night before. There was little space but he found a table in a nook at the far end of the room and ordered a bottle. Surely they must see him for what he was, what he had done … but he began to realise that the did not, he was just one of them.

Dolohov felt a thrill.

A wizard, grey dust clinging to his damp robes, hat askew approached. "May I?" he asked.

Dolohov nodded and watched as he heavily sat down, laying his hat on the table between them. Beneath it was a mop of curly blond hair.

"Friend, you look like you need a drink," Dolohov slid the bottle across the table and the man looked at it, then at him warily.

"I do. Were you there last night?"

"In the Alley? I was there." It was true to an extent.

"Then I welcome your offer. The clean up is just beginning. We're taking up shifts. You're not Ministry, are you?"

"No."

"We appreciate your help the most people like you – how the community pulls together when tragedy strikes."

"What happened? Do we know?"

"Nothing official," the man rummaged in his robes and pulled out a crinkled newspaper. "Look at this – could be the last issue they publish."

On the front page was a single word PANIC! And below it a scene of devastation. Ministry Cover up?: Page 2, The Rise of Dark Magic page 3 …

"They should publish. The public needs to know."

"What exactly?"

"What is happening here… I know… I must do something about it. Look, I don't know who you are but there is something big happening. It's not a gang of idiots, it's organised and it's powerful."

"Perhaps you should tell the Prophet, not me." but despite the disinterest in his tone, Dolohov was intrigued, it seemed that sometimes all people needed to make them talk was an open ear.

"There have been so many events – so many and no-one knows – it can't go on. It never reached the papers but last month, a whole family, the Prendergasts, they'd gone on holiday with some Muggle relatives – to Spain. They travelled the Muggle way so that they could all go together. We found them, six people still in their swimming costumes at the top of Everest. All frozen, stiff as boards. Some Muggles found them and nearly fell off the mountain in shock. They're still having their memories altered. If that isn't shocking enough, the Prendergasts still had their wands, it seemed they didn't even try to fight. Their little boy, five years old, and the Muggle family. All of them … sickening, and the Ministry will do nothing about it."

Dolohov was wondering exactly what this had to do with his situation but it was clear that this man carried more that disgruntlement with ministry cover-ups – he recognised something that was within himself – guilt.

"That's not all though. You won't read it here but the muggles are terrified. There's a gang you see, motorbikes and black leather, terrorising the cities. They call themselves the Death Eaters, spraying it on walls in paint that can't be removed. Tormenting any Muggles unlucky enough to cross their path. That skull, that was there last night – it's the same sign. It's the same people."

He was a man ready to crack. "Go to the paper," Dolohov suggested, disgusted at the mans performance. "Here, there's an address."

He seemed happier having shared his information with someone. Dolohov raised his glass again, intrigued.

Fun, playing the game for the danger. That was what Rookwood had been talking about. Indulging ones passions, whatever they happened to be at the expense of anyone who happened to get in the way.

That was what the whole conversation had been about. It was fun, a game a gamble, and why should someone with the power not even the odds.

Still it didn't explain the wait. He pushed back his chair and walked slowly down Diagon Alley, lingering at the site. It was daylight now. Broken beams stood upright like blackened, broken teeth, the oven merely a patch of red in the middle. The walls of Gringotts were once again pristine, and many hands eagerly scrubbed the bricks of the bookstore on the other side. People slowed down to look and Dolohov walked among them. They were unaware of him, of what he could do to their lives. That was power. That was fun.

Many weeks had passed since Halloween and Dolohov had started to wonder if he had failed their test. If he would ever hear from them. It made him more determined to join. After his conversation with the wizard in the Leaky Cauldron he had taken to stealing Muggle newspapers just to see what was in them. There was a lot that couldn't be explained without magic.

Strolling through Soho he'd watched three young men on motorcycles pull up outside a café. He could see that they weren't wizards, just teenagers trying to look tough. Even before they reached the entrance a woman with a mop in her hand blocked the doorway.

"You get out of here. Hooligans!" she shrieked. "You're not welcome with your punk rock music and your death eating idiocy. Get lost or I'll have the law on you. Vandals!"

Reducing them to spitting angrily on the pavement and revving their machines. Dolohov watched with interest for indeed it seemed that they had taken up the name and painted it in snot green on the back of their leather jackets. One again he opened his copy of the_ Times_ skimming through the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ concealed within its pages.

_If only they knew_, he chuckled pleased that he was part of a joke that no one else could understand.


	4. A Pickle

Feast!

Chapter 4: A Pickle

o

An Ashwinder slipped from the embers of the dying fire and instead of finding a shadowy corner to lay its eggs it wound around and around on the hearthrug, laying a trail of ash. As Dolohov stared the dust stirred, raising into ridges, forming itself into words.

Be at Caer Dwr at sunset.

The time had come.

He arrived as the sun hung low over the sea, inches from the extinguishing waves. The castle itself was perched on an island, linked to the land by a narrow causeway. Tightening his cloak against the shore breeze Dolohov hurried across the causeway, which rose steadily to an open gateway. Within it stood two people masked and robed, each holding a blazing torch.

"Put this on," one said.

Dolohov didn't recognise the man's voice but he did as instructed taking the mask and pulling it over his head. He felt a twinge of fear as the cloth caught on his stubbled chin. He recalled very clearly the last time he had worn such a mask.

"Now, follow me."

The other man followed behind and they processed into a cavernous hallway their way lit only by the torches carried by Dolohov's escort. As they approached the end of the corridor a door opened, a line of light widening to reveal a chamber so vast that apart from an area around a crackling fireplace, its edges were lost in shadow. Dolohov peered into the darkness as his escort placed their torches in brackets at either side of the hearth and stood back, expectant.

A swish like silk on stone, then footsteps, echoing loud against the bare walls grew louder. The tall pale figure of Lord Voldemort emerged slowly from the darkness.

The Death Eaters bowed low and an instant later Dolohov did the same.

"Antonin Dolohov," said Lord Voldemort. "Stand."

He did as requested but said nothing more.

"I have watched with interest your behaviour over the past few weeks. After our little entertainment on Halloween…" he paused, angling his head as if deep in thought. "I began to wonder if your friend Rookwood had been mistaken about your commitment."

"My Lord, I…"

"Did I ask you to speak?" he said softly, "I think not. Imagine how intrigued I was to discover that you thought us fools, misguided, petty. I had a most interesting discussion with Rookwood and he insisted that you were reliable. I really couldn't find a way to make him change his assertion. Why do you think that was?"

"I …" Dolohov shivered feeling the liquid drop of fear inside him freeze then shatter.

"Spare me your lies, Antonin Dolohov. There is pettiness, to use your own term, but not in the way that _you_ think. You have sat in your hovel and moaned bitterly for reward yet what have you done to deserve it? Self pity is very boring, Dolohov. You must enjoy what you do, relish it, revel in it or else what is the point? I assure you that we enjoy very much what we do here. We feast upon it, we take nourishment…" He looked past Dolohov, toward the entrance. "Ah, step back Antonin Dolohov. Join your companions. We will finish our business later. I believe our guest of honour has arrived."

Lord Voldemort turned and stood with his back to Dolohov and the two Death Eaters who watched as the door opened again. Five people entered. Between the rigid arms of the first two, a man hung, his robes torn and hat askew. They loosed him a few feet away and then the four positioned themselves to complete a wide circle, Voldemort and their prisoner in the middle.

"Mister Hetherington!" The name ricocheted off the walls.

Through the slits in his mask, Dolohov stared at the man. He knew him. It was the man he had spoken to in the Leaky Cauldron, the drunken man who had babbled about evil and conspiracies and Ministry cover-ups. A man who, it seemed, had taken steps to try and change his path.

"Tell me, Mister Hetherington," Voldemort began pacing slowly around the man, hands folded deep within the blackest of robes. "Why is it that you see fit to terminate your visit to London early when Lord Voldemort specifically requests that you stay there?"

Sweat began to bubble on Hetherington's brow. It gathered above his eyes and trickled slowly down into his beard. His lip wobbled.

"Please tell us Mister Hetherington." A terribly polite enquiry. "Lord Voldemort is eager to know."

Lord Voldemort's face split into a wide grin and he clapped his hands together as he turned to speak to the Death Eaters.

"My friends, it seems that Mister Hetherington has at last run out of boasts!"

A ripple of laughter coursed around the circle, nervously, Dolohov joined in as Hetherington closed his eyes.

"Where is the tale of how he came to flee? Will he not entertain us with the story of how he came to be here? Nothing more than a battle with the Ministry's best could justify this … don't disappoint us, Mister Hetherington. "

The wizard opened his eyes to find the Dark Lord's grinning face just inches from his own. He leapt back in shock, causing his hat, which hung dangerously over one ear to fall to the floor. But the jolt was enough to free his tongue.

"London, yes, the Ministry. I …" he said, tripping carelessly over his own garbled words. "The elf, was  
dead and there were two wizards, Blackberry or something and one with a cat and we went for breakfast … the kitchens of course, and the house elf was there … what could we do but investigate. Well of course I had to join in, would look mighty odd otherwise."

Hetherington chortled, with a new confidence as if he had decided that he wasn't in trouble - that the Dark Lord was just having a bit of fun. "Yes, we were in the kitchens, I muddied waters, provided red herrings, and led them astray. There was no clue that would show them the culprit but then the Auror arrived and … and…and…"

"Do continue."

Antonin experienced an odd sensation at the man's discomfort. At that moment the man represented all he hated about wizard kind – a fool who had been given an opportunity and wasted it. He felt no sympathy. He neither knew nor cared what the man had done. Like the other Death Eaters, he was keen for something; he felt and shared their hunger.

"Hetherington, I said to myself, as I reached for my wand, the game's up. I could see it in his eyes, so I fired hexes in all directions and made a run for it, 'course he struck back, there was quite a fight I can tell you! I was outnumbered but I got past them and after a monumental struggle I left them confunded. My first thought was to return to you my Lord to bring you news from London. The information that I was sent to get!"

Red faced and breathless Hetherington finished with a flourish and a smile. A smile which became weaker and weaker as Lord Voldemort began to laugh.

"Yet you departed from London many days ago. Am I to believe that you walked here? Am I to ignore the evidence of my own eyes?" He tapped one finger thoughtfully on the end of his wand, "Can it be that you came here of your own accord, that my Death Eaters did not have to drag you?"

"I…I had to wait, they might have followed me!" He was panicking now, crazed eyes darting from mask to mask. "I had to leave London, they knew!"

"Mister Hetherington," Voldemort spat. "I did not send you to London to give interviews to newspaper reporters, to plant evidence or to fight house elves in kitchens or to get information of any kind whatsoever. I sent you to London to die!"

"To d-die?"

The Dark Lord nodded, still smiling. "And we see that you have failed in even that most simple task." His eyes narrowed and followed Hetherington's gaze down to the tip of his wand.

"No, no." Voldemort shook his head. "Nothing so easy as that. As you have returned my plans must change. Unworthy though you are you may serve Lord Voldemort once again. These four will be your escort."

Voldemort bent and picked up the fallen hat. He placed it firmly on the wizard's head, and then stood back with his arms by his sides.

"Step forward," he ordered.

Anticipation. Dolohov felt just like the others as they watched Hetherington obey.

"Lord Voldemort has one last gift for you. A fitting reward for your service."

Dolohov caught what looked horribly like a wink as the Dark Lord extended his left arm. The hand came to rest lightly on Hetherington's chest, just above the heart.

"Cor Ignis," said Lord Voldemort softly as he applied a little pressure with his fingers. He lowered his hand and turned aside. "Now take him away." The Death Eaters who had brought him came forward and seized Hetherington's arms, pulling him upright. "You know where. And watch him. Watch also for those who seek him."

"What have you done?" cried Hetherington as they began to guide him from the room. The warmth in his chest was growing, beginning to creep along his veins. With a final effort he broke away and flung himself at Voldemort's feet. There were tears in his eyes. "What have you done, tell me I beg you!"

"Tsk tsk." Voldemort replied with a sigh, soft and satisfied. "Very well."

He raised his hand to stop the Death Eaters and peered down at the man blubbering at his feet.

"Why Mister Hetherington, I have set your heart on fire. It will burn until every vein in your body is consumed. It is a new spell of my own devising. You are most honoured. I am, of course, intrigued to know how long the effects last and indeed if it can be reversed. You will let me know if you live, won't you?"

Voldemort lowered his hand and the Death Eaters reached for Hetherington. His cries and pleas were lost in a sweep of cloaks as the escort whisked him to his final destination.

"What an extraordinary reaction," muttered Voldemort as Hetherington's sobs faded to echoes. "He always had a tendency to talk too much. Now, Mister Dolohov. I believe we were in the middle of a discussion."

Dolohov jumped, shocked to find the attention of the Dark Lord back with him.

"Did you not find that amusing, Dolohov? Was it not entertaining? Or perhaps your tastes are too sophisticated for the likes of us?"

"I…I…"

"Can nobody speak without stammering these days?" he snapped, "Answer me, Dolohov."

"It was entertaining." Dolohov wasn't sure where he found the ability to speak but he realised just how essential it was.

"So now you have eaten our bread and drunk from our cup. Did it sate your hunger?"

"No," Dolohov replied.

"You are above the laws that stifle and bind our people," Voldemort said. "If you want more you take it and do it in my name."

"My Lord."

"With all your devotion, with all your loyalty."

"My Lord."

"Your body and mind at my service."

"Yes!"

"Bound until death."

"Yes."

"Then step forward, Antonin Dolohov."

A single pace brought him close, and Voldemort's hand shot out taking his left arm in a swift and powerful grasp. The other hand pushed up his sleeve, thick fabric bunching at the elbow. Voldemort laid his thumb on the flesh. It was cold, like the dry palm that held him there. He could see the veins beneath the taut skin that stretched over the hand pulsating with each beat of his own heart. As the Dark Lord's thumb gouged his skin it began to sizzle, and Dolohov tasted blood beneath his tongue.

He felt weaker, weaker and then the pain was gone.

Voldemort let his arm fall. "United beneath the Dark Mark,"

Dolohov collapsed hard on the flagstone floor, dimly aware that he had bitten through his lip.


End file.
